


The Sex Pollen Incident, Or, Science is a Strange Mistress

by amalcolm



Category: Jonny Quest
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Letters explaining sex pollen, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Pollen, Unresolved sexual antidote, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalcolm/pseuds/amalcolm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think the title pretty much covers it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sex Pollen Incident, Or, Science is a Strange Mistress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Franzeska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzeska/gifts).



**TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET**  
19 September 196—  
CONFIDENTIAL  
RE: Diplopeofil i.e. “sex pollen”  
To Benton C. Quest, PhD, ScD, MSA, etc  
Dear Sir:  
In regarding the recent debacle that at Intelligence One we have code-named the ‘the sex pollen incident,’ we request full details as to the origin of this event for the record. Specifically, we request you to be as precise as possible as to the antidote you devised to counter the effects of the drug. You are probably aware of the horrific circumstances of Jack Onanieren’s death. As we are all eager to avoid this situation in the future, we of course insist upon your complete discretion and forthrightness in answering, recognizing as we do your immense value to our organization.  
I remain, sir, yours in patriotic patriarchy,  
Peter Cherryhead  
Director of Intelligence One,  
United States Government

 **FROM THE BRAIN OF BENTON**  
22 September 196-  
Dear Sir:  
In regard to your recent letter, which I have received and studied fully, I send the following statement which contains the full details of the so-called ‘sex-pollen’ incident. I will be completely plan and spare no thoughts to propriety or decorum as I explain what occurred.  


I had been asked by the renowned medical scientist Jack Onanieren to review a new pill he called diplopeofil, which he stated could bring a man inches from death back to life. I was of course extremely skeptical, but as I knew him to be white, male, wealthy and American, I saw little reason to not give him the benefit of the doubt. I took several samples of the pill back to test in my laboratory, and was beginning these tests when the accident occurred.  


My son and Race Bannon were working on some chemistry experiments as I was working nearby, cutting the pills with a small hand laser. Lasers, of course, are the future. I couldn’t have foreseen what would have happened and they have joined me in the lab numerous other times without incident. As it happened, my son’s dog spotted something at the window and began to bark and generally act like a nuisance (as he is want to do) but as I turned to silence him, he ran by me, knocking me off stride just enough that I happened to accidentally tip a small beaker of water I had hoped to mix with the pills in order to determine its rate of dissipation, and much to my complete amazement, the laser heated the concoction to a degree that it acted much as isoproanol and ethylene glycol do and exploded into a small gelatinous pile of white creamy foam.  


Unfortunately, we all three managed to come into contact with the cream. I tried to at least keep my son away from it, but the white cream was irresistible. It didn’t appear to be an irritant—neither our skin or eyes burned, itched or changed color—and I fully admit that we laughed it off at the time. There was no way that I could have known the drug was so potent that even breathing it in would cause a reaction. I was far more concerned that my samples were destroyed than the fear that we had been exposed to anything lethal. In fact, I immediately attempted to contact Dr Onanieren to explain what happened, but there was no answer.  


By the time we retired for the night, there was nothing suspicious to report, except that Bandit, my son’s dog seemed inordinately lustful. We observed him trying to mount a vase, a football, a cactus (that was ugly) and our feet repeatedly that afternoon and into the evening. I made a mental note to have him neutered.  


That night I could not rest easily. I was tired but sleep would not come. I felt a restless, throbbing ache that I could not explain. I tossed and turned until my pajama top was soaked. And when I finally did drift off, I dreamed of every vile, degrading sexual act that was possible for one man to complete and awoke to a screaming ejaculation that sent my head spinning. The feeling of it is one that I cannot fully put words to, but it was far different than the many orgasms I have experienced before. I was not left exhausted or satiated. I felt simply...well, relieved I suppose. As if I had been hanging from a cliff by the tip of two fingers only to have a rope thrown at the last second. But as I am not one for ridiculous metaphors, I will simply continue by telling you that I took a cold shower that did me little good and spent the remaining dark hours tinkering about in my lab. I believe that my brain already sensed the risk and tried to rouse my body likewise but I could not act yet. A man having a terrifically sexual night, even alone, is not usually a prelude to danger. I did attempt to contact Onanieren again and still received no answer. I could little imagine why at that point.  


Two events that morning first alerted me to the fact that there may be a problem: the first was my son, Jonny. He was not his normal self at breakfast. He appeared surly and nervous—two traits that are very unlike him. I supposed that he was sick but he said he felt fine. It was only after I caught him masturbating furiously in the linen closet that I doubted his word. My first instinct was that puberty had arrived, but given that he was only 10, and that he showed none of the physical developments usually marking this transition, I doubted it. Still, in order to not alarm the boy, I explained to him that while it was acceptable to occasionally allow his young body some release, to do so obsessively was un-American and he should concentrate on good food, lots of exercise and studying mathematics to overcome his urges. I took a blood sample and sent him to our underground swimming pool to do laps.  


I didn’t find anything unusual in the sample. In fact, I was just beginning to think I had perhaps imagined that there was any cause for concern when Race Bannon appeared, eating a banana and looking gray and sleep-deprived. He had spent the night with, in his words “one never-ending hard-on” and it was only immersing his testicles in ice water that allowed him to cease his exertions. That was when I was certain that we had a problem. For even though Roger T. Bannon is a lusty, all-American well-endowed male, it was still extremely overzealous to deplete an entire bottle of lotion in an attempt to complete drain the testicles through thirteen orgasms. Which was apparently what he had done.  


At this point, I was already beginning to feel it again myself—the relenting need for sexual release. The muscular form of Agent Bannon was like a drink of water to a Bedouin wanderer just then. It was pretty clear—sodomy was inevitable. There was no discussion. He was furiously pumping inside me the minute I fell on all fours. It had never occurred to me before how he had acquired his _nom de guerre_ but he was sufficiently...fast.  


I cannot tell you if sex with another as opposed to the solo act worked as a stronger deterrent to whatever was effecting us, but after I had ejaculated carelessly onto the floor of my lab I felt somewhat more clear-headed. We stood and starred at each other, neither the least disturbed by what we had done. We might have spoken, I suppose, although I can’t begin to imagine what we would have said, had our dog not come scampering in yelping terribly with several large splinters of wood jutting from his tiny manhood. I sighed. This had to stop. I said so to Race Bannon. He looked at me longingly. But he agreed.  


I began by doing a full laser-scan of both myself and my colleague and projecting a laser-cast version on the screen. I could see immediately that there was something odd about our frontal lobes—sort of fuzzy, pollen-like nodules that were attaching themselves to our heads. Breathing in the residue of the diplopeofil must have caused a chemical reaction in our brains, and our massively increased sex drives seemed to be the result. The only question was what to do about it. Race Bannon and I discussed:  
**Would the effects simply wear off?**  


As my colleague fillated me, I took some samples and studied their reaction times. Unfortunately, they were long-lasting. Our immune systems might eventually break the intruders down, but that could take weeks. The effect of constant sex would raise our blood-pressure and there was the real possibility of heart attack or stroke. No, we couldn’t chance waiting it off.  


**Should we go to Dr Onanieren for help?**  


It’s simply infeasible, I told Race Bannon. There had to be a reason he was not answering my attempts at contacting him. And even if there was nothing wrong at all, we still had to fly to him while being unable to control ourselves, hope he was in his laboratory, and then hope he could help. It would take a lot of energy we couldn’t spare at the moment on a chance. My colleague nodded his agreement, grunted loudly and spilled his seed on the hand I was using to pleasure him.  


**Could we find a cure ourselves? Is there a way to stop the pollen from attacking our brains?**  


We discussed radiation, flooding the brain with chemicals, even brain surgery, but these we all deemed to be impractical. We were alone, time was a factor and there were limited amounts of supplies in my laboratory. It was only when my son Jonny came running in (the drug had so focussed my mind on sex that I had nearly forgotten about him) with an icepack on his groin that an idea began to form. It reached complete fruition when Race Bannon began to cough and I spied a mercury-filled thermometer on the wall. It was so simple! I could take the engine from our lawnmower and—  


_“Why’d you stop?” I asked. I had been reading over the doctor’s shoulder. “You’ll win another Nobel Prize when you tell them what you did, Ben.”_  


_“Exactly.” He had a cunning little grin on his face. “Why do you think they want this in writing? For the file? That’s bullshit. It’s for two reasons only—they want the antidote to the diplopeofil...the sex pollen, first and foremost. Our government will make a fortune, as will the pharmaceutical company that puts in the highest bid. Now, I don’t mind that in the least. That’s democracy. It’s good business and it’s one more weapon we have against communism.”_  


_“Of course they’ll use it as a weapon. I mean, look what happened to Onanieren...”_  


_“Yes. A shame. He really was brilliant...and to die like that. Trying to copulate with a vacuum cleaner...”_  


_“It shows how important your antidote is, Doctor.”_  


_“That’s true, Race. But I’ve worked for Intelligence One for too long to not recognize an ulterior motive. They’ll use this “debacle” as an excuse to take you from Jonny and I.”_  


_I could feel my jaw harden. “Why would they do that?”_  


_“I think you know the answer to that.”_  


_“But you’re Benton Quest! One of the three most important scientists in the world.”_  


_“Exactly. That means there isn’t much I can keep secret. That we can keep secret.”_  


_“Even if it’s none of their damn business.”_  


_“They don’t see it that way, I’m sure. But they want my antidote. And I want you. It’s a fairly simple business transaction.”_  


_I’m touched. Warm in a way a man will never admit to. This is my family. The first I’ve had in a long time—and I mean to keep it. At any cost. But of course I won’t tell any of that to Ben. “Make sure you tell them to stock up on lawnmower engines._ ”  


_“And cough syrup.” He chuckled. “Science is a strange mistress at times, Race.”_  


_I handed him a note I scrawled to include in his report. “Are you ready for bed? Or are you going to finish that first?”_  


_“Bed sounds the more appealing of the two options.” He rose and stretched himself, putting his hand firmly on my back. “Let’s go.”_

****

_______ _ _ _

**Cherryhead—  
** **Request permanent assignment to Quest family. If denied, what happened to Jack Onanieren and the vacuum cleaner will happen to you.**  
**Sincerely,**  
**Roger T. Bannon**

_______ _ _ _


End file.
